‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it. Ruth was inflammable; she would always be flaring up swiftly, in pity, in tenderness, in anger; she would always be answering impulses, without seeking to weigh or to analyse them. Your husband could have told you that. That’s the wonder of it. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair. She regarded the young man coldly. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. She was conscious the whole conversation of Michelle, trying to divine what the girl was planning to do. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture.
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